


No Dreamless Sleep Needed

by lesyeuxverts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesyeuxverts/pseuds/lesyeuxverts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dreamless Sleep helped, sometimes.</p>
<p>Sometimes Harry saw Snape, wounds gaping, hand outstretched, lips stretched in a last plea. Their eyes had met, and he had seen Harry, and Harry had seen him as if for the first time.</p>
<p>Sometimes, Harry held Snape while he died, cradled his warm body and gave him that final comfort.</p>
<p>You have pleasant dreams, don't you?</p>
<p>It was not Snape's voice, because Snape was dead. Harry gave the portrait a last look before leaving his office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Dreamless Sleep Needed

_Dreamless Sleep does not prevent sleepwalking._  
  
Harry blinked and rubbed his eyes – endless night after endless night, and now the smoky, stuttering drag of his dreams into the mornings. He had thought he'd heard Snape's voice.  
  
Harry poured another cup of tea, breathing in the rising steam. It was enough to wake him a little.  
  
 _The addition of asphodel will prevent sleepwalking – but of course, it will also create the Draught of Living Death. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?_  
  
Snape was in his portrait, as silent and stern as always. He never changed, from the pinched corners of his mouth to the muted glare in his dark eyes – paint could not reproduce reality.  
  
The tip of Harry's quill snapped, splattering his parchment with ink. He cleaned the scroll with a wave of his hand, banishing both blotches and the cramped, illegible words, and he rolled up the scroll, shoving it in a desk drawer.  
  
He did not hear Snape's voice because his portrait had never spoken, had never moved. He did not hear Snape's voice because Snape was dead – a crumpled body, blood-stained and still, a corpse to haunt Harry's dreams.  
  
The Dreamless Sleep helped, sometimes.  
  
Sometimes Harry saw Snape, wounds gaping, hand outstretched, lips stretched in a last plea. Their eyes had met, and he had seen Harry, and Harry had seen him as if for the first time.  
  
Sometimes, Harry held Snape while he died, cradled his warm body and gave him that final comfort.  
  
 _You have pleasant dreams, don't you?_  
  
It was not Snape's voice, because Snape was dead. Harry gave the portrait a last look before leaving his office.  
  
\----  
  
The Dreamless Sleep was bubbling in its cauldron, the heavy fumes sinking around the table and turning it into a smoky pedestal. Harry opened Snape's book – he didn't need it now, didn't need the Half-Blood Prince's instructions for this potion any longer.  
  
It was a familiar weight in his hands, though, and the margins were filled with Snape's familiar scrawl. Harry held the book for a moment before setting it down and turning to the stock cupboard.  
  
Asphodel to prevent sleep-walking, to send the drinker down deep, so far past sleep and dreams that they sunk into Living Death … Harry hesitated, his hand near the jar, and then turned away. Not asphodel – he added a pinch of ground ebony, making a draught that would leave him responsive and aware.   
  
He would sleep, he would remember the dreams that slid past his mind without troubling him, and he would wake if he walked.  
  
The potion spluttered great green bubbles at the addition of the petals, but Harry held himself well back from the splash. Snape would not find just cause to taunt him for his potions now.  
  
\----  
  
There was comfort to be found in potions. Set aside from the noise of the children, the quiet chill of the ghosts, the troubles of the teachers, there was precision and predictability. Rules, order, reliable results – the practice of potions soothed Harry.  
  
He didn't know how Snape had sacrificed his potions, those last two years at Hogwarts. He didn't know how Dumbledore had left alchemy and invention for the Headmaster's office, the paperwork and the quarrels and the headaches. Harry rubbed his temples, staring into the burbling cauldron.   
  
The final phase was finished, the potion clear and perfect, the last of the steam dissipated in the cold dungeon drafts. Harry Summoned a score of vials, setting them down on the table without a clatter. He ladled the potion out in single doses, sealing the vials and setting them in his cabinet. Pocketing the last one, he let the reassuring weight swing against his thigh as he went to the door, dimming the lights and sending the dirty cauldron to the sink with a wave of his hand.  
  
The stairs were bound to his will, but Harry did not hurry them. He waited in the dungeon, letting the staircases move at their own whim, waiting for one of them to swing into place. Like a bubble, pierce-able, he rose at last. The castle was waiting for him, the afternoon buzz of students and staff harsh against his nerves after the enforced silence of brewing.   
  
Forms and meetings, the endless routine of his days – Harry's fingers closed around the vial in his pocket. Of the portraits in his office, how many had been content with their position? How many endured, how many struggled? Did Albus or Minerva find a steady, filling contentment in duty?  
  
Harry stopped at the base of the stairs, trailing his fingers through the dust on the gargoyle that winked at him. Without reason, without need, he turned away from the stairs, heading down the corridor and out of the castle. Pausing by the Shrieking Shack, Harry did not let himself linger – there were too many memories there.  
  
The Forest was quiet, its inhabitants lulled by the strong sunlight. Harry settled against a tree, the rough bark snagging his robes and prickling against the back of his neck. Restless, he could not settle there.  
  
He was too near the place where Snape had died – too near the blood and the cold, still corpse. Snape, so bitter and real in life, had shrunk in death until he was nothing more than a man, cold limbs circled by coarse black cloth, sticky blood to be cleaned, stiff eyelids to be closed. Snape, in Harry's dreams, never appeared with the acid-tongue, the viper-voice that he had possessed in life.  
  
Snape was dead, and Harry had not saved him – had not seen him to his grave, had not performed the tender and careful rites of death that Snape had deserved. Like Hedwig, fallen to death in her cage, her wings outstretched and useless, Snape was dead. Harry had left him there, had left the sticky blood to dry, had left the eyes gaping wide.   
  
Closing his eyes, Harry leaned against the nearest tree. He rubbed his temples, rubbed his eyes until colors swam in bleary waves before his eyelids. There was nothing more to be done.  
  
Harry fingered the vial in his pocket, testing its seal, stroking its curve. There was nothing more to be done, and he turned back to the castle and his duty.  
  
\----  
  
In the afternoon, Harry settled himself into the patch of sunlight that streamed through the diamond-paned windows, tea at his elbow and scrolls in front of him. Evaluations of performance, both student and staff, recommendations, Ministry suggestions, budgets – there was no end to paperwork.   
  
In the flicker of sunlight and shadow passing over the portraits, Snape's eyes appeared to move. Harry dropped his quill, blinking the half-focused words from his vision. Ink splattered over his fingers, wet and cold, but he paid it no mind, leaning across his desk to look at Snape's portrait.  
  
There was no further movement. The eyes were cold and dark, the hands folded in black flowing sleeves, the shoulders set and the lips turned down in a scowl. Snape was as he always was – immutable, inanimate, unforgiving.   
  
Harry wiped the ink from his fingers with a soft cloth. In truth, there were no final words – no forgiveness, no redemption or absolution that he could expect from Snape. In truth, he had failed Snape. Harry had let him slip away into the darkness without comfort, without a kind word or touch, without even the stark knowledge that his efforts had not been for naught. No bezoar, no spell, no Time-turner – Harry had tried nothing. He had stood, and watched, and let Snape die, stealing his memories and the last moments of his life.  
  
Harry hesitated, his fingers poised over the cabinet handle. The Pensieve, the photographs, the memories – they were best kept locked away. It was best if Harry wasn't reminded of Snape's sacrifices. It was best if he wasn't reminded of his parents' love, Remus's wry smile, Tonks and her bubble-gum hair, Dobby and his mismatched socks – it was best. Grasping his wand tightly until it dug into the palm of his hand, Harry layered another ward on top of the locking spells.  
  
 _You always were a fool._  
  
Harry spun around, his wand falling from bloodless fingers. Snape was not haunting this office where he had spent the last year of his life – Snape was not in his portrait, was not in Harry's waking dreams. Snape was not here.  
  
 _Do you call this life – drugs and dreams and duty? You always were a hopeless Gryffindor, Potter._  
  
Shaking, Harry surveyed the office. Detection spells on every corner, every hideaway – there was nothing. The round tower echoed with his footsteps and Harry fled.   
  
\----  
  
Harry had chosen quarters that were deep in the dungeon, foregoing the Headmaster's traditional rooms in his tower. Deep in the earth, in the damp and pungent smells of soil and rot and life, he felt a solemn, steadfast peace. It was not enough to drive the dreams away – it was not enough to ease his pain – but it was enough to comfort him in his waking hours.  
  
His rooms had no windows, no opening for moonlight or starlight to mark the hours, no allowance for sunlight or fire or warmth. The thick stones kept his counsel and the sounds of his dreams.  
  
The heartbeat of the earth echoed through Harry's bones – root and growth and secrets strongly kept. Some nights, it was enough to lull him to sleep.  
  
A thick wall separated Harry from Snape's old rooms but was not enough to separate him from guilt. He was responsible for Snape in a way that he had not been responsible for Lupin or Fred or Colin. They had died for the Light – Snape had died for Harry.   
  
Harry ran his palm along the wall, rough stone scraping against his skin. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the vial and then uncapped it, holding it to his lips. The ebony gave the potion a bitter-sweet smell, and Harry grimaced as he swallowed. Asphodel would have made it sweet, would have weighted down his limbs with peace and living, dreamless sleep.  
  
Already shaky on his legs, Harry made his way to his bed, nestled against the far wall. He drew the hangings around it, cocooning himself in velvet and darkness. He would not dream that night.   
  
\----  
  
The ground ebony worked its magic. Before the jarring trumpet of his alarm spell, before the hearth was lit by diligent house elves, before the first dream could slip through the potion and mar his sleep, Harry woke. Sleeping still, in a dreamless, waking sleep, he watched himself Summon his slippers and robe. The blankets and velvet hangings were pushed aside, the door was opened despite the stiffness of sleeping, unresponsive limbs – Harry watched, separate and helpless.   
  
The stairs bent to his will, sliding into place for him with heavy rumblings. The air warmed around him as he ascended, stepping from stair to stair with unmeasured surety. Harry did not stumble in his sleep, did not falter on his way – he beckoned, and the stairs obeyed. He gestured, and the gargoyles moved aside.  
  
The Headmasters dozed in their portraits, the soft sound of their raspy breathing filling the round room. Harry watched himself walk through the pool of moonlight, watched himself walk past all of the portraits, and watched himself stand in front of Snape's portrait.  
  
It was eerie, unconnected, surreal. Waking sleep, dreamless sleep, Harry could not control his own limbs. His arm reached out to touch the frame of Snape's portrait, tracing the heavy gilt and fondling each curlicue. His voice, rough and mumbling through his sleep, said, "There but for grace go I …" and Harry watched as his finger traced the line of Snape's robe, going up to touch his turned-down mouth.  
  
Backing up, Harry leaned against his desk, finding an uncomfortable perch on the corner. "Severus Snape," he said. "Severus ... my Severus."  
  
Struggling against the grip of the potion, Harry watched as he undid his robe, letting it fall open. He was bared to the cool air, to all the sleeping Headmasters in their portraits, to Snape who never moved or spoke in his portrait.   
  
Harry's internal struggles did no good – he was held fast by the potion, dreamless but waking, forced to watch himself as he stroked his own cock, teasing it to hardness. He spread his legs further, fondling his balls and then teasing his hole with his free hand. Harry felt his sluggish, twitching face move, his lips curving up in a smirk.   
  
"Severus Snape, hottest Headmaster of them all. Oh, Severus. I dream of your hands on me, your lips on mine, your tongue put to good use. You were meant for me – you were always meant for me."  
  
Snape's portrait did not move. His mouth was the same, pinched and frowning. His features were motionless and his hands were still – but his eyes gleamed, the strange gleam of half-shadow half-light that Harry had seen in the afternoon. His eyes _moved_ , and he watched Harry wank.  
  
Harry fought to break out of the waking sleep, but it was useless to fight against the potion. It was Snape's recipe, written in his own hand, brewed with Harry's own faithful hands.  
  
Harry's hands betrayed him now, pinching his nipples to taut peaks and stroking his cock. One hand went to his mouth and he wet his fingers with a clumsy tongue before using them to fuck himself, legs spread open to display himself to Snape's portrait.  
  
"You'd let me do it, wouldn't you?" Snape's voice echoed through the office, and even in his induced sleep, Harry jumped. "You're so desperate for repentance, for absolution, you'd let me do absolutely anything. You'd throw over the memories of your dead wife and let me fuck you here on this desk, in front of all the Headmasters of this illustrious institution."  
  
Snape's voice was the rich, deep rumble that Harry remembered, the perfect weapon to aim against his students or bend to his own purposes. It ran down Harry's spine, tingling as it went, and he moaned. "More," he said in his sleep, his tongue stumbling over itself. "Talk to me, Snape. Make me come with your voice."  
  
"You'd sacrifice everything for me, just because you think that I made the ultimate sacrifice for you. You never did learn anything of cunning or strategy. You never were an apt pupil … and I suppose nothing has changed for the better now."  
  
"Anything," Harry said, wanking himself to the rhythm of Snape's words. "Anything, I'll do anything."  
  
Snape's voice still rang through the office, and the hairs on the back of Harry's neck rose, prickling in the slightest draft. There was a heavy, deep presence in the air, and he knew – through drug and dream and despair, Harry knew it. Snape was here.  
  
Dead, improbable, impossible, Snape was here. His presence filled the room – his aura, his voice, his power. Harry's arms went to grip the desk and he came untouched, semen spurting over his thighs and robe.   
  
Snape's presence was enough to undo him, and even as he shook with the last tremors of his climax, Harry was lost to Snape. "More," he heard himself say. "Come to me, Severus. Touch me. Hold me."  
  
"You'd love me," Snape said, his voice heavy and resonant. "After all that I've done, after all the years that we spent apart – in the end, you understand. You're meant for me, as I was meant for you."  
  
Snape's voice faded away, and he was gone, leaving Harry cold. The office was silent, save for the raspy breathing of the Headmasters in their portraits and the absence that was louder than silence that came from Snape's portrait. Stiff in the cool air, Harry tied his robe around himself, hopping down off the desk, and was hardly aware as he made his way back to his own rooms.   
  
\----  
  
Dawn was shrill on Harry's nerves when he shook off the last of the potion, stumbling into the shower and washing the dried come off his thighs. Like a discordant jangle, it rang through Harry's mind: Snape was alive. Snape was alive, and he had watched Harry wank.  
  
Soap harsh on his skin, shaving potion soft on his throat, tea warm in his mouth, Harry prepared himself for the day, moving through his routine as though he were asleep, still drugged and helpless. He hesitated at the door.  
  
No – there were questions that could not be deferred, and there were dreams that must be shattered. Teeth sharp on his lower lip, fingernails crescent-sharp on his palms, Harry pushed the door open and made his way up to his office.   
  
Two years he'd worked here, lulled by the comfortable routine, driven by the lack of sleep and the lingering guilt – two years, and he'd never been afraid to enter his own office. Forehead pressed against the smooth wood of the door, Harry clenched his fists tighter.  
  
The door refused to open. Harry's fingers, sweat-slick, fumbled with the handle until hands grasped his shoulder, spinning him around. "I imagine you'd better have a very good reason for attempting to enter my office, Professor Potter."  
  
"Snape." The word fell out of Harry's mouth, hanging in the air.  
  
In his dark, swirling robes, with his scowl, his eyes glinting and his arms folded across his chest, Snape had not changed.   
  
Harry took a step closer. Snape had changed – faint white scars marred his throat. Harry reached out, as if to touch them, and let his hand fall. "You're alive."  
  
"Your powers of perception haven't dimmed over the years – how gratifying."  
  
"You … all these years …"  
  
"Despite all these years," Snape said, his tone sharpening to a razor point, "the fact remains that I was made Headmaster of Hogwarts, a position from which I have never been dismissed. Therefore, it would appear that you are blocking my entry to my office, Professor."  
  
Snape's hand was warm on Harry's elbow. He stepped around Harry, and the door yielded easily to him, opening at his touch. "Come," Snape said, pulling Harry into the office. "Sit."  
  
"How?"  
  
"As it's usually done, Harry … in a chair."  
  
Snape served him tea, steaming hot and tart with the faint smell of lemon. He reached across the table to add sugar to Harry's cup, letting their hands brush together for a brief moment. Harry swallowed.  
  
Leaning back, Snape studied Harry, watching him fumble with the cup. When liquid slopped over the rim, Snape conjured a towel and passed it to him. "To answer your question," Snape said, "I was … indisposed for some time. When I returned to Hogwarts –"  
  
"It was you, yesterday," Harry said. He set the teacup down with a clink and gripped the arms of his chair. "It _was_ you, speaking to me."  
  
"Yes." Snape inclined his head. "It was I, speaking to you with a modified form of Legilimency, and it was I who watched you through the portrait. A clever spell of my own invention."  
  
The gilt around the edge of the saucer was chipped in two places, flecks of gold gone, showing the white china beneath. Harry traced the rough spots with his finger, refusing to meet Snape's gaze.  
  
"You would have come up here this morning and searched until you'd found my hiding place," Snape said, reaching across the table to catch Harry's hand in his own. He held it, not forcing Harry to look up at him. "I see no reason to hide from you. Incorrigible Gryffindor, you haven't changed at all."  
  
"You … wanted me to find you?"  
  
"After your nightly exhibitions, who wouldn't have wanted you?"  
  
Harry drew his hand out of Snape's gentle grasp, pulling it back into his lap. "I – I need – I have to go," he said, and stumbled over himself as he left the office.   
  
\----  
  
Snape was alive – Snape, who had lived for Lily, died for Harry, and died without knowing that his sacrifices were worthwhile. Snape, who had haunted Harry's dreams and his waking sleep, had returned.  
  
Neither the Forest, with its quiet breeze and pine-swept shadows, nor the dungeons, with the calm endurance of the earth, nor the workroom where he brewed his potions – nothing at Hogwarts called to Harry or appeased the panic that rose in his throat like a trapped bubble. There was no solace for him here, no way to lessen the shock or deaden the fresh anguish.  
  
Snape found Harry crouched in the Owlery, having banished all the birds out into the clear air and Scourgified the room until the stones sparkled in the morning light.  
  
Harry was kneeling by the window where he'd often sat with Hedwig, his fingers tracing old patterns on the ledge. Time and weather and claws had scarred the stone, wearing away at it and marking it. Harry did not look up at Snape's approach.  
  
Snape knelt next to him, covering Harry's hand with his own. "Potter," he said, "I expect my Potions Master to have better composure than this, you know."  
  
"You –" Harry raised his face, baring it to the sunlight and the breeze that came in through the window and Snape's intent gaze. "You –"  
  
Stroking Harry's knuckles, Snape said, "I am no ghost, Harry. I'm as real and alive as you are."  
  
"I came back for you," Snape said when Harry was silent. "It took me years to recover my strength – healing from Nagini's bite took all but the last of my magic, but I always intended to come back for you."  
  
\----  
  
The vials of Dreamless Sleep were arrayed in neat rows, the potion gleaming in the faint flickers of torchlight. They were all useless – tainted with the ebony, laced with dreamless, sleeping wakefulness. Harry smashed the vials, one by one, watching the potion drip off the wall and onto the floor.  
  
Snape was at his side again, catching his elbow and leading him to a chair. "The ebony was a brilliant idea," he said. "Far superior to the asphodel, it was an inspired solution to the problem. You've earned the title of Potions Master here, Harry."  
  
Snape's book was still open on the worktable, next to the row of battered cauldrons, and Harry paged through it, his fingers lingering on the scrawl in the margins. "I did none of the work."  
  
"You've certainly surpassed my sixth year text," Snape said, taking it from him and closing it. "You've kept up your skills – you're certainly qualified to resume your old position, if you should wish to do so."  
  
He tilted Harry's chin up, for the first time forcing Harry to look at him. "I would be very pleased if you did so."  
  
"The Board of Governors will not approve your reinstallation as Headmaster," Harry said, jerking away from Snape's touch. "If you think that you can waltz in here –"  
  
"And will you fight to keep a position that you hate?" Snape asked. He rose, pacing the length of the room with his hands clasped behind his back. "Will you begrudge me the position that should now be mine – will you begrudge me the chance to make an honest job of it without the pressure of Voldemort and his henchmen and the demands of Albus's last wishes? Will you, knowing what I have sacrificed, what I have lost, take away my chance to be welcomed back into wizarding society?"  
  
Harry turned his head away from Snape. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fluttering shadow of Snape's cloak, billowing as he moved.  
  
Snape came to kneel in front of Harry, clasping his hands. "You dreamt of me," he said. "Did that mean nothing to you?"  
  
"How many nights did you watch me?" Harry asked, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. "How long did you laugh?"  
  
"When I saw you," Snape said, "I spelled the portraits asleep to preserve your dignity. I didn't laugh."  
  
"Your portrait never moved," Harry said. "It never changed, because you were never dead."  
  
"That's right." Snape's hands were warm and gentle as he stroked Harry's fingers. "I think you love me, Harry – as you never loved your wife, as you never loved that brief career as an Auror, as you never loved anyone before. You dreamt of me, you came to me in the night, and you love me. We were meant for each other – I was meant for you, just as you told me last night, and you were meant for me."  
  
"Ten years," Harry said. "You left … ten years, and now –"  
  
"Ten years that have made us ready for each other, ten years that have brought us here together. If you're going to be stubborn and deny it – Harry, if you're going to dwell on the past and the pain, then I'll leave you now."  
  
When Harry made no response, Snape released his hands, standing. With a flourish, he Scourgified the room, cleaning away the mess of glass shards and spilled Dreamless Sleep. "I'll be in my office, waiting for you."  
  
\----  
  
The morning sunlight streamed in through the diamond-pane window, silhouetting Snape and catching the steam as it rose from the tea. Harry paused on the stairs that led down from the Headmaster's room, watching the scratching of Snape's quill, the rapid spiky print dark on ivory parchment.   
  
He was done with dreams, done with regret and absolution, and done with the visions of Snape dead and bleeding. The warm hollow that Snape had left in the bed next to Harry, the residue of soap left in the sink from Snape's shaving, the pleasant aches in Harry's satisfied body and the slow, sweet burn of the morning after – Snape was alive. Harry stretched and yawned.   
  
The movement caught Snape's attention – he looked up at Harry, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Good morning," he said.   
  
"Good morning," Harry said. "Sleep well?"  
  
Leaning across Snape and letting his fingers linger on Snape's shoulder, Harry took the second cup of tea. It was sweetened to his taste and had cooled enough to drink, the steam enough to drive away the last echoes of the night.   
  
Snape took a sip of his own tea, watching Harry over the rim of his cup. "Yes," he said.  
  
He put his quill aside, taking Harry's elbow and guiding him to the window seat, where he settled Harry on the sun-faded velvet cushion and conjured a table for their morning meal. Leaning into his touch, Harry smiled up at him.   
  
With his thumb, gentle and slow, Snape traced the curve of Harry's lips. "And you – did you sleep well?"  
  
"Very well," Harry said. "No Dreamless Sleep needed."


End file.
